“How horrible of you, Wilfrid!”

“Well! Here we part! Give us your flipper.”

His eyes—rather beautiful—looked dark and tragic above the smile on his lips, and she said stammering:

“Wilfrid—I—I don’t know. I want time. I can’t bear you to be unhappy. Don’t go away! Perhaps I—I shall be unhappy, too; I—I don’t know.”

Through Desert passed the bitter thought: ‘She CAN’T let go—she doesn’t know how.’ But he said quite softly: “Cheer up, my child; you’ll be over all that in a fortnight. I’ll send you something to make up. Why shouldn’t I make it China—one place is as good as another? I’ll send you a bit of real ‘Ming,’ of a better period than this.”

Fleur said passionately:

“You’re insulting! Don’t!”

“I beg your pardon. I don’t want to leave you angry.”

“What is it you want of me?”

“Oh! no—come! This is going over it twice. Besides, since Friday I’ve been thinking. I want nothing, Fleur, except a blessing and your hand. Give it me! Come on!”

Fleur put her hand behind her back. It was too mortifying! He took her for a cold-blooded, collecting little cat—clutching and playing with mice that she didn’t want to eat!

“You think I’m made of ice,” she said, and her teeth caught her upper lip: “Well, I’m not!”

Desert looked at her; his eyes were very wretched. “I didn’t mean to play up your pride,” he said. “Let’s drop it, Fleur. It isn’t any good.”

Fleur turned and fixed her eyes on the Eve—rumbustious-looking female, care-free, avid, taking her fill of flower perfume! Why not be care-free, take anything that came along? Not so much love in the world that one could afford to pass, leaving it unsmelled, unplucked. Run away! Go to the East! Of course, she couldn’t do anything extravagant like that! But, perhaps—What did it matter? one man or another, when neither did you really love!